Prisoner: X
by onelildustbunni
Summary: Prisoner is an AU trilogy about the New X-men characters Hellion and X-23. Read author note in header. Second in the trilogy; and sequel to 'Prisoner: Y'
1. Chapter 1

**The Prisoner Trilogy**

* * *

_Prisoner_ is an alternate universe fan fiction trilogy about the New X-men characters Hellion and X-23.

What if Charles Xavier and his X-men had never existed? What if humanity decided to take care of the  
mutant menace for once and for all? _Prisoner_ is told in three parts as a work of speculative fiction by a  
mutant anthropologist of the Hope era, imagining what life may have been like for the three pivotal historical  
figures that prevented a mutant apocalypse.

~**NOTE**~

This fiction series is rated NC-17. The website for this series is at h t t p : / / prisoner . forever . as (remove spaces).

This is the sequel to Prisoner:Y and is second in the trilogy. Hope you enjoy it! ~onelildustbunni

* * *

**Prisoner: X  


* * *

**

**-prologue-**

She looked out the window, into the hardy landscape, her eyes distant.

Genetically engineered to perfection as a clone of one of the world's deadliest assassins, provided with years of billion-dollar tactical training, tortured  
emotionally and physically, an assassin herself, and a nightwalker who provided services to men for money—and now she was a housewife. Pregnant.  
Standing in a kitchen, rolling out dough with a rolling pin and waiting for Y to come home.

Or Julian, she should think of him as. It was hard. She had spent almost a year in the internment camp, thinking of him by his designation, and not his  
real name. But now she must use it, or she would risk the suspicion of their sparse, simple-minded, small-town neighbors.

And the bigotry.

She and Y had relocated, all the way to England, to the moors. To a small farm, rented with money she had hidden before her capture.

She wasn't sure how she felt about this new life of hers. The camp, to her, was a different experience than whatever it was to Y. Before the camp, she had  
lived her life in a state of trauma, in a state of abuse; the camp was just another form.

But this, this is new, to her—life without constant trauma. Day in, day out, no pain. At times, she almost wondered how she could continue to tolerate it.

She needed the pain to exist, to make sure she was real, because it was so easy to slip and believe she wasn't.

How did it come to this?

* * *

**-1-  
**

She wakes, suddenly, to the feeling of dampness against her neck, and a hand on her slightly swollen stomach. Her companion is sweating; the sheets are twisted around  
his legs, and his heart rate has increased along with his breathing. She wonders if fever is setting in; perhaps there was an unobserved complication in the procedure earlier.

She's never performed brain surgery before, so she's not sure.

"Is something wrong?" she murmurs, turning her head.

"No," Y responds in a thick voice. He's lying, she knows that right away. She can smell it. He presses his face into her shoulder, making the skin even wetter.

"You are crying," she comments, rolling over to face him.

"I am not," Y says. He looks slightly insulted. She doesn't know why. It was a simple observation.

"My neck is wet," she says, matter-of-factly. She hesitates. Perhaps it is not his head; perhaps it is their past experiences. His friends. She knows that he is different  
from her—he forms deep attachments, and he is unused to situations like the camp. He was innocent.

"Y—Julian—you must let it go. It is not necessary to regret the casualties at the camp…it was not your mission to protect them." She understands missions. She needs _  
something_ she understands when she speaks to him; it's not a purposeful conversation if she does not know what they are talking about.

"I still feel like shit!" he says forcefully. "They are—were good people—who—didn't have to die." His voice cracks on the last part, rising a half note to her trained  
ear. She can calculate the frequencies, if she pauses a moment. "I just stood there and watched."

"There is nothing you could have done. You must put your regret aside." Her voice is absolute, he must let this go. She is afraid he will not do what needs to be  
done if they are cornered. She is afraid he will allow himself to be captured, to help others. To be a martyr. He would sacrifice himself for his friends; and she  
knows there is no place for martyrs in this world, knows it very well.

Although there are things she does not know. Such as depths of emotions as the boy demonstrates, at times. She doesn't know what it _is_ to be a martyr,  
having nothing she would die for.

To her, it's all about survival. And the mission. The mission _is_ survival, at the moment.

She thinks. How to motivate him, to focus? She has a thought, then reaches down and presses his hand to her stomach. "You must focus. The…infant will  
require your attention. You cannot allow yourself to be distracted."

Y blinks.

"Okay," he says. His fingers tighten slightly on her stomach, and he pulls her closer, burying his face in her neck. She feels his breath on her skin.

"I love you," he says.

She pauses.

"I love you, too," She says. It's what he needs to hear.

What does that word really _mean?_

**-x-**

The next morning, she checks the wound on Y's head, for signs of infection. This would be a very bad time for him to obtain one. However, they are fortunate, and the  
stitches are a healthy pink, with minimal fluid visible. She disinfects it (Y winces) and then puts a new bandage on.

They must move on. They can't afford to stay still for a long period of time.

They need more money.

"Stay here," she says to him, sticking her foot out of the window and ducking her head to avoid the top sill. They are on the third floor of an abandoned apartment  
building that has a lower likelihood of inspection.

"Wha—wait! You can't just leave me!" Y says, jumping to his feet and running after her like a canine that has lost its owner, his eyes wide. They look enormous in his  
hollow face, too large. She can see the pale blue irises in the dark as if it were daylight inside the room, since she has excellent night vision.

"Remain calm," she says, somewhat scornfully. "I will return."

Y puts his hands on the window sill. "I don't want you going out alone."

"You will be safe here," she says. "If you are found, simply fly away." Y has bragged to her that he is able to levitate himself with his mind.

"Not me. _You,_ X…I don't want _you_ getting in trouble." He reaches up and threads a hand through her hair as she narrows one eye at him in slight irritation. He is a burden,  
a hindrance…she is only doing what needs to be done. Still, she finds that she does not want to speak sharply to him; he is not trying to be difficult. She can smell  
him. He is genuinely concerned.

"I will be fine." Her voice is soft but firm.

"They got you before," he points out.

"It will not happen again." She withdraws her other leg.

"I'm coming," he says, starting to follow.

"No." Her voice is sharp now. She does not want him to see what she is going to do to obtain money. He will allow jealousy to cloud his judgment, even though it  
is the only way to obtain money without drawing attention to her mutant powers.

Y is too emotionally impulsive.

"I do not want you to come. I will be back, by sunrise. Do not follow me. Promise me you will not."

Y looks surprised; she has never asked him to promise her anything before.

"…okay," he says reluctantly.

"Good." She pops her claws—_snkkt!_—and jabs them into the side of the building. She descends quickly, then hurries into the blackness.

**-x-**

"I thought you wouldn't come back," Y murmurs into her hair, the next day. She has returned with money—plenty of it—after a hard night of work.

"…" she does not know what to say to this.

"You smell funny," he adds, sniffing. She pulls away—she tried, to the best of her abilities, to wash the scent off—the scent of booze, drugs, smoke and  
various bodily fluids—but she is aware that she did not do a complete job. She has misjudged the strength of a normal olfactory organ.

She tilts her head. "It was a long night. Get the bags, we must leave now."

"What were you doing?" he asks.

She pauses. Why does she not want to tell him? Is it really only the fact that he will react negatively, and cause resistance? Is there something else to  
this instinct to avoid the subject?

"What I had to do," she answers, making it clear she will not discuss it further. "Y, it is not safe for us here anymore."

"I know that. I thought we're leaving."

"I mean in this country," she says.

He stops. "You mean…Canada?"

"No. That is too close. We will need to immigrate to another country that has a history of more liberal views. England is a logical choice, having abolished  
slavery and promoted homosexual rights long before the United States."

Y's forehead wrinkles. "…England?" he asks.

"Yes." She picks up her bag, from the chair, and zips it shut, then slings it around her shoulder, sliding it over her slightly round waist with a _shrrk shrrk _sound.

"Why not somewhere tropical?"

She pauses. "I do not wish to be too isolated. There are still cities in England, such as London." Cities are all she knows.

"No plane's going to let two muties on. We can't even get passports," Y argues next. Logically. But she has thought it through.

"We will hide on board a water vessel," she says. "It will not be difficult. Between our abilities, we will certainly be able to avoid detection."

"Laura—" he says, something he has taken to doing at times. When he wants to be human with her. He doesn't understand that names mean nothing to  
her—not even _X_—and that she's not human. "How are we going to _eat_?"

"I will arrange it."

Her expression tells him to cease asking questions, and he does. When has she ever been wrong? Y trusts her, for some inexplicable reason. Maybe  
he is just overly trusting; maybe that is why he was captured in the first place.

But he is right; she does not wish him harm. She teeters on the edge of admitting she would put herself at risk to spare him harm, although her  
definition of 'pain' and 'suffering' is somewhat unclear.

Y moves to the table, picks up the two bags that contain all their worldly belongings. A blanket, a rolled pillow, some dried rations. One change  
of clothes for each. Money. Toiletries: a hairbrush, two toothbrushes and some paste, a shaving razor they share (he has begun to develop facial hair),  
and some deodorant, also shared. A small towel, for when there _is_ a shower. A bar of soap, and a tiny bottle of shampoo. Fake I.D. cards that will  
fall through the moment they are scanned electronically.

That is all.

Y follows her to the window, glancing back one last time to make sure they haven't left anything, but everything is in their bag.

**-x-**

"Do as I do. Remain quiet. Do you understand?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, his expression serious, his blue eyes wide, believing. Believing that she is right, without fault. She pauses for a moment to wonder  
over this, that he'll readily believe anything she tells him, not even doubting. Files it away in her mind. She's not used to this, being worshiped  
as she is beginning to view it.

It's very different from the kind of treatment she's used to. She's not sure what to think about it, so she doesn't.

They are at the docks, amongst sea gulls and salty sea air, holding hands as they walk. Y likes to hold her hand, and she finds that it is not as  
unpleasant as she first assumed it would be. She enjoys his touch, even though he is not experienced. He is eager to please, which is different  
than what she is used to; therefore they are both inexperienced about this sort of touching.

He will learn if she teaches him, she reasons.

To the side she sees a man pulling a cart of shiny, silvery shapes; fish. Another cart—this one full of minute pink-and-white shapes. Shrimp.  
She pauses, examining the cart for a moment longer. She is momentarily reminded of the contents of her stomach; as a youth, she was trained  
in anatomy and physiology, and shown cadavers, their skin drawn with dotted lines. Instructions where to cut them, like one might see on a  
bovine in a cookbook. Except these lines merely referred to critical, vulnerable areas, to use in attacks. Amongst these cadavers was a pregnant  
woman; it had contained a tiny curl that looked akin to the shellfish in the cart, wheeling away.

Pink and delicate.

She tears her eyes away, trying not to think of it. She can't feel anything yet—it has only been four months in development—but she is acutely  
aware of it, every time she glances down. It is frightening. She is used to pain—to torture—to horrors no one should ever have to face—but _this, _  
this scares her. This little intrusion. Because she is supposed to protect it.

So far, she does not feel different. She has heard women speak of pregnancies—a 'glow', a maternal instinct. She feels none of this. Only invaded  
and afraid when she thinks of it, which she tries not to.

She has other concerns at the moment, mainly keeping the other child safe. Or whatever Y is; he hovers between childhood and adulthood, still  
somewhat shrouded in naivety and youthful assumptions (compared to herself); yet he is too old and witness to too much to really be classified  
as a child again. She supposes, as they pass a vendor selling fruit, that she will consider him a boy, and this will define what he is. She is all  
about definitions.

"Those look really good," Y whispers, pulling on her hand. He has stopped to examine a barrel of shiny red apples; Macintosh, 99 cents a  
pound, the sign reads.

She sets her lips in a firm line. They should move on. Y looks longingly at the apples. She finds herself reaching for a plastic bag at the side of  
the cart, despite her irritation at the delay.

After scouting out the ships sailing that day, they sit on the edge of the dyke, their bare feet dangling over the edge as they eat apples. Their  
shoes are resting on the side. It is a hot, sunny June day, and the sky is blue.

"What time is it?" Y asks, munching.

She checks her watch, the face of which is on the underside of her wrist. "Eleven hundred hours, sixteen minutes, fifty-three seconds. We have  
approximately one hour and twenty-four minutes before we should return to the ship."

"Good to know," Y says, not sounding surprised at the level of detail to her response, as he might have before.

He throws his apple-core into the sea, and smiles briefly as a seagull catches it before it hits the water. "That was awesome!" he exclaims, all  
boyish enthusiasm.

She says nothing, but smiles slightly and enjoys the feeling of sun on her skin. Y puts his arm around her shoulder, somewhat nervously. She returns  
to the thought of his inexperience but says nothing, allowing him to tentatively hold her like she is made of glass and will shatter if he does the wrong thing.

"What are we going to do?" he asks, his voice cracking. "In Ireland."

"Move on," she answers, her eyes closed. She may not get to feel the sun for a while, however long the passage will take. They must hide, and hiding  
does not include sitting in broad daylight.

"Okay," he says. Hesitates. "And then?"

"We will find a suitable area," she says. "I must ascertain the situation first."

"Okay," he says again, his fingers spreading on her shoulder. He runs his hand down, slightly, to her elbow, then back up, and he kisses her. She responds,  
but winces as he leans into her slightly, pressing on the top of her slightly-swollen stomach unintentionally. She can feel _this_ acutely. It makes her have to  
urinate. "That is uncomfortable," she says, pulling away.

"I'm sorry." He withdraws his hand from her arm, looking…she doesn't know the word for it. Hurt? Angry? No, not quite either of those, but he is not  
encouraged by her response. She smiles slightly, takes his hand and puts it on her knee instead, safe and away from all the uncomfortable organs  
in the middle.

They sit for a while longer, than she announces that it is time to go.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thanks for reviewing! As noted on several story updates, I am having life difficulties + computer problems at this time  
(my desktop is broken) and I do not have my graphics programs/etc at hand to work on my website. I just put a message  
up on the main page alerting people to this so as no one will think it's a dead site.

**NOTE: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MATURE SUBJECT MATTER, NC-17. DON'T READ IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE OR ARE OFFENDED  
BY SEXUAL CONTENT.**

* * *

**-2-**

_En route to Belfast, Ireland_

They have been on the ship for four days, holed up in a storage room, and she is surprised that Y has not gotten seasick as she  
had expected. Rather it is she who feels nauseated, with her delicate senses. It is a good ship, a cruise ship, and by no means is  
the ride rough, but she can still tell that they are not on land.

The room they are in contains kitchen supplies, which is fortunate, and has solved the food problem completely. There is still the  
facilities problem; she finds herself having to use the washroom several times a day, much more often than the norm for her. They  
have to ascend the stairs for that; then Y finds a public restroom, and solves the issue, as who is to know they have not paid for  
their ticket, as long as they act casual.

For the most part, they sit in the darkness, not wishing to invoke inspections by risking light. There is a small window through  
which they can see underwater; dim light enters through this. Peering out, they often spot bits of seaweed, and on occasion  
a school of silvery fish. Y sees a squid once and is fascinated.

There is another activity, which commences on the third day, when they are less afraid of being discovered. It is begun by her.

She sits on the ground, leaning against a shelf, the pillow cushioning her back, which is cramping slightly in discomfort. Y sits  
across from her against a sack of rice, his arms folded as he stares out the window, thinking about something. Whatever it is,  
it is a serious topic; he frowns in concentration. She wonders if he is thinking about the camp again.

Then she begins to note the contours of his body. He is filling out again, having eaten three square meals a day for about three  
weeks now, nutritious foods. She has made sure of that. She notes that he is still muscular from the camp, and suddenly she  
realizes she is no longer watching him out of concern (as she had thought); she is admiring his aesthetical appearance,  
something she has not done much of in her life, for anyone.

She feels an almost chemical hunger. She has felt attraction before, but not been much compelled to act on it. She must not. They  
must be ready, in case they are detected….she bites her lip, her eyes on his throat.

Y senses her gaze and returns it, oblivious. She is frustrated, despite her decision that they should not engage in such…acts. Constant  
vigilance. She tips forwards onto her hands and knees and moves towards him, defiantly, smiling slightly. "Hi," she says, wondering how  
to explain what she wants. What is acceptable in this…partnership, of sorts. Uncertain if she should use techniques from her 'job', or if  
that would be inappropriate.

"Hi," he replies, somewhat smiling as well, but not really, because he was thinking about something serious. Of course, when  
she _wants_ his attention, he's elsewhere, otherwise occupied.

Well. She does know how to get a man's attention. It is her job, after all. Business as usual. She hesitates, then sits back on her heels,  
and her fingers circle the topmost button on her corset, flick it open. He's gazing out the window again, still not looking.

She undoes two more, clears her throat, still goes unnoticed. She is frustrated; he is ignoring her signals. She decides to take matters  
into her own hands, leans forwards and takes hold of him _there._

Yes, that gets his attention. He looks at her immediately, reacting, she can feel it under her fingers. Even just her hold is enough to draw  
the blood in, like a magnet. He is young and does not have the problems some of her customers have had (and had to take chemicals for;  
she could smell the medication).

He doesn't say anything, just stares, with wide eyes as she begins to move her hand around over his jeans, her fingers creeping up,  
finding the zipper tab, and undoing it as she bites her lip in that way men like for her to do.

She touches his shape for a few moments, scoots closer and undoes the button on his jeans, then hooks her fingers expertly into the  
waist and begins to work them down along with his boxers. He swallows, raises his hips to assist her. He seems almost afraid to move,  
as if he will scare her away. This makes her want to smile and she does.

"What?" he asks, his breathing a bit heavier.

"Nothing," she says, working his lower coverings to his knees. She bends forward in this movement and flicks her tongue across a  
particular area she knows is sensitive, something she has not done before for him. He moves—something like a squirm—and she  
places her hands on his thighs, willing him to be still. Her black-painted thumbnails bite lightly.

She runs her tongue down, and finds another area she knows to be sensitive in a large demographic of men, due to her  
knowledge of male anatomy.

Y is no exception. He takes a deep breath as she slowly rubs the tip of her tongue against this juncture, and he actually makes a  
slight vocal sound as she forms an 'O' with her lips and takes him in, all the way in, knowing how to depress her gag reflex through  
much experience.

He lasts longer than she thinks he will, through the first few strokes, and even as she picks up the pace, but when runs her tongue  
over the small pore at the end, he arches against the rice bag, trembling. His hands find her shoulders.

"Don't. I'll—"

She slides her lips around the head and repeats the motion. This time he loses control, his fingers gripping her shoulders almost painfully  
tight. He's silent as he twitches, which surprises her, as well as the technique that has caused it. He is unusual in his preferences on both counts.

He likes to talk, to make noise. She had expected him to enjoy noise in this, as well. It is illogical.

She swallows, as she has been trained to. He tastes like mushroom soup.

He removes one hand from her shoulder, tilts her chin up and kisses her, hard, pushing her back against the pillow on the  
shelf. She responds, surprised that he doesn't mind his own taste; he is finishing the unbuttoning of her top, now.

"Are you not going to rest?" She asks, surprised, also, that he is continuing the action. He pulls away to look at the last buttons he is struggling  
with. "No," he responds, still panting. _Pop, pop _as the buttons open.

"You should rest," she says, her forehead wrinkling slightly. This, too, does not fit in with the norm. Perhaps it is his youth. He pushes the top  
open and runs his hands over her flesh. "Plenty more where that came from," he says, his thumbs finding the centers of the heavy round shapes.

The rest of the afternoon is spent coupling on the floor, in frenzied tempos. This satisfies a sensation almost like an itch, and she  
realizes that his movement inside her (quite violent at some stages) mysteriously irradiates her back cramping.

He finally cools down to just nuzzling her shoulder and breathing hard, unable to perform any longer. Which is somewhat frustrating, as

she does not feel inclined to stop; but he presses along her spine and the warmth lulls her to sleep.

**-x- **

"Go take a walk or something," Y says, on day six. They will arrive in Belfast tomorrow, and she is restless. She has, so far, taken out her  
energy on him; he looks exhausted, his hair disheveled and his eyes half-lidded. He is leaning against the wall, looking out the window at  
the ocean again, while she in turn leans her back against his stomach, her head tilted up to examine his expression.

She hugs her knees to her chest and looks away, petulantly. She thought this was what he wants—to be close, to couple as much as  
possible. However when she catches his eyes now, he looks away, unwilling to initiate another session.

"Are you sulking?" he asks. There is a quality to his voice—amusement?

"No." She looks at the floor.

"I'm sorry." He rests his chin on her shoulder. "I don't have whatever-it-is you've got going for you. Give me, like, an hour."

"Okay."

A moment later he has nodded off; his heartbeat has steadied and his breathing is regular, soft. She looks out the window and thinks  
of where they are headed. What will she do with Y? And this infant? She doesn't know the first thing about raising children—she is an  
assassin and a street walker. A drug dealer, at times. She is unassociated with emotions and morals and illogical practices such as she  
has seen parents encourage their children to believe (she has witnessed families in parks). Stories, imaginary people, brightly-colored  
objects, and loud voices. Screaming and crying and requiring food constantly.

She wonders if she should give the child away, but she doesn't know how Y would react. She also wonders if she could just leave it  
with him while she continues her life, but she doesn't especially wish to terminate her association with him. And yet if she continues  
to be associated with him, she will undoubtedly be involved in the infant's upbringing.

It is a frustrating, enigmatic puzzle.

**-x- **

"Someone is coming!" She hisses, shaking Y's shoulders. He wakes with a start and stares at her groggily. "…huh?" he asks. Then he  
seems to understand and his eyes widen with panic.

She looks around. There is only one door, and the person is already in the corridor. There are only bare, steel shelves, up against the  
wall; the components are thin and the bottom shelf is low, almost at ground level (eliminating the possibility of hiding beneath it).

So X looks up, and with relief she notes that the top shelf is relatively out of view—and has about two feet of space between the ceiling.

"You are telekinetic?" she whispers.

"Up there?" he asks.

"Yes. One per shelf. Stay against the wall and _be quiet._"

She watches as his eyes suddenly change color; light travels up through his optic nerve, fills his retina and then the rest of his eyes. It is  
green in color. She feels a sharp yank behind her navel as she is pulled off her feet and tucked on top of the shelf. Y has just hidden himself  
when the door opens.

The light is turned on, and she presses herself tightly against the shelf, breathing very, very shallowly through her nose. She stares at the  
ceiling, afraid that the shelf will creak at any moment due to the added weight. The tiniest noise could draw the person's attention.

Y seems to be employing a similar policy; she can hear his heart hammering in his chest, but his breathing is satisfyingly softer than  
normal. She can also hear the breathing and pulse of the individual below—a male, approximately forty years of age, smoker. He coughs  
and pulls several cans off the shelf.

"What the—" he mumbles. She almost tenses but stops herself. She hears him shifting cans, one, two, three, four, and counting out loud,  
under his breath. He has noticed the missing cans of food, then.

He grunts as he counts the last can, then makes a scuffling noise, reaches up and pulls the light cord again. Leaves, closing the door with a _bang. _

They remain in place for about fifteen minutes, afraid that he will return, then Y finally whispers, "Is it safe?"

She nods tersely, then realizes he can't see in the dark, like she can.

"Yes. We must be more cautious."

"I don't see how we _can_ be," Y mumbles as he brings them down. "We're already sleeping in shifts. You're monitoring people who come within  
twenty feet of the _hallway_ to this room. We _have_ to eat…"

She is silent, knowing he is correct.

**-x-**

The rest of the voyage passes without incident, and they escape customs by slipping to the bow of the ship and climbing over the rail when no  
one is looking. The bags containing their possessions are water tight; when they reach the shore, they find a small wooded area and, after  
toweling off, change into dry clothes. Following this, they make their way into town and take stock of their situation in a small pub that  
accepts American money.

Y wants to order alcohol (he seems excited at the idea) but she orders water for the both of them, reminding him that he does not have ID  
and that she should avoid consumption, at the moment. The truth mostly lies in the fact that she does not know how he tolerates liquor,  
yet; he has probably not drunk before, and drunken behavior would be undesirable. Two beers for him might be equivalent to twenty  
beers for a regular adult male who has experience drinking. When she thinks about it, she decides she does not _want _to see him drunk;  
she has seen enough men who become violent and stupid, and she does not want to change her opinion of him.

"In England, then," he pouts.

She fiddles with her napkin. "We need to plan now."

"Okay," he says. "Well, we just pick a town, right? Or a city. And find jobs…I guess I'll need fake ID…you know how to get that, right?" he whispers.

She nods.

"Uh," he looks awkward. "I thought…that we…I mean, you and I…if you want to…I really like you." He's rambling.

"I know." She smiles slightly. It's time to ask. "Do you want to keep the infant?"

He stares. "Uh…yes?" he says, as if he's shocked she's asking such a question. Which is strange, it's a perfectly logical question. They are in  
no position to bring another individual into the picture, which will most likely be a mutant as well.

"Are you certain? It may be a burden," she says reasonably. "I will offer my assistance when possible, of course, but I cannot allow it to get  
in the way of my employments. My fields of work may be unsuitable for an infant."

He continues to stare, as if she's said something odd, outrageous. She wonders if it has to do with the lack of emotional consideration she  
has towards the developing infant. It is best to be perfectly clear, however, on the situation.

"Are you saying…" he seems to find something amusing, leans back, grinning. "You can't be serious, X. I must be hearing you wrong. You're  
saying you've got a job…so you're leaving _me_ with the kid?"

"In essence, yes," she says seriously. "I will arrange your quarters, in the same city I can find a satisfying amount of employment opportunities in,  
and I will visit often. You will be able to raise this infant in a more diligent manner than I am able to." She paused. "It is your fault, after all," she  
adds, then wonders if that was a mistake, assigning blame. She would like this to be as businesslike as possible.

"…" Y leans over the table, his expression serious now. "I think you're on a completely different page than I am, X. When I meant I want to be  
with you…I _mean _it, not just some drop-in. And that kid is totally not my fault. You came onto _me _first. And—" he seems full of arguments. He is so difficult.

"I have allowed you to accompany me," she reminds him.

"You're completely the opposite of most girls, you know," Y says analytically. "Any other girl would be trying to get _me_ to commit…to keep the  
kid…I should be harassing you to get rid of it…but I _want_ it, X…" he touches her hand. "It's something _alive _we made together…in a place that  
was made for dying."

She considers this. She has heard many 'romantic', 'poetic' things quoted by men; she's had three johns fall in 'love' with her (one attempted to  
kill her but failed miserably), and so she is not unused to having such things said to her (although she is not certain _why_ they feel the need to  
speak like that). Y does bring logical points into his argument, however. She feels annoyed, like she did when he wanted the apples, and she  
wonders if she is going to give _this_ to him as well, just to see him be happy. She has no idea why she humors his whims. His happiness does  
not benefit her in any way, except to cause her facial expression to change to a slight smile.

"You're going to live with me," he says confidently. "We'll get married, and—"

It is her turn to stare at him. "What for?" she asks.

"Or not," he says, frustrated. "I insist that we stick together. _And_ you're going to raise the kid with me, end of story. You're it's mom, for God's sake."

"I would not make a good mother," she insists. "My career would endanger the infant. Besides, I do not understand many frivolities  
that parents humor their children with. They are illogical."

"You sound like a Vulcan," Y says.

"What?"

"Never mind." He sighs. "X…it's up to you how you want to raise it. If you don't care about stupid little things…fine, don't do them. Just being  
there is enough. You'll forget all about wanting to take off when you actually have it, from what I've heard about kids."

She is silent. Perhaps he is talking about the mysterious 'maternal instinct' that she entirely lacks.

"Look. All you need to do is find us a place…and help me get some ID. I'll do the rest. I'll make sure you don't _need_ to work, you can just  
concentrate on what you want to teach the kid," Y says.

"Not work?" she says, at a loss. She's always had an assignment, a mission, even while street walking. The mission then is to satisfy the  
individual—the 'john', as the pimp who introduced her to the profession called her clients—in exchange for money. A good job occasionally earns tips.

"I'm sure it'll be a nice break for you," he says. "What do you do anyway?"

She is silent. She continues to have the feeling that informing him of her occupation would result in his anger, and further complications.

"Fine, don't tell me," Y says. He takes a sip of his water.

The food arrives, fish and chips, and they are both distracted from their argument. From Y's occasional glances, she thinks that he appears  
to believe he has won. She remains silent and eats, thinking.


End file.
